


as far as i dare go

by kitschy



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Timeline, Gen, Light Angst, because i can never write anything THAT sad, but it's not happy, just some hashtag backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitschy/pseuds/kitschy
Summary: Adeline Giry, and how she came to be entwined in the Ghost's terrible love story.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera & Madame Giry
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11
Collections: Genuary 2021





	as far as i dare go

**Author's Note:**

> i've always found the dynamic between mme giry and erik interesting! and also mme giry in general heh. so this came out in one sitting. i thought it was gonna be like five paragraphs and then it got uhhhh unnecessarily long
> 
> also i hope this was clear from tags etc but this is NOT a romantic fic hee hee. also-also, forgive any errors because this got written and uploaded in one day with no revision

Adeline had once prided herself on being good.

At the traveling fair, fifteen and shaky even on dancers' legs, she had had a brief fantasy of freeing the little thing in the cage, horrific as it was. Marguerite, her closest friend—always the braver, prettier, stronger of the two—had even been willing to come with her and lead the charge. _Yes, let us free the Devil's Child,_ Marguerite had agreed, _and let it return to Hell, if it likes. If nothing else, it can live with dignity there._ _Besides_ —she had grinned— _it will be an adventure for just the two of us._ But Adeline's mother had reminded her that the circus master had to make his living like anyone else, and that really, that monster was better off taken care of than being scorned out in the world. It was not Adeline's place to decide which creatures needed dignity, certainly not when human livelihoods were at stake.

And so Adeline had stayed home that night instead of meeting secretly with Marguerite, knowing the other girl would not go without her and that all would remain the same. It was the right course of inaction. If she woke up nauseous with guilt the next morning, it was only because of a dream of the thing's anguished, bicolored eyes, not because of anything real.

A few years later, her father had anxiously suggested she marry the wealthy Pierre Giry. After the man had been soundly rejected by Marguerite, no explanation given, he was willing to have Adeline, and it did not occur to her to refuse. Her family needed the support of his; she was not likely to make a fortune for them as a dancer. _But do you love him?_ Marguerite had asked. Adeline did not know what love was. Or—she was not sure she knew. _Then how can you give yourself up to him?_ But it was not giving up. It was necessary for those around her. There was no reason, no reason she could articulate, in any case, not to go along with her father's wishes, so when Marguerite had tearfully declared they would never speak again, she had not dared to think about why. It could only lead to trouble.

So she'd done nothing besides be Pierre's wife, which was not, as it turned out, a very demanding job, emotionally or otherwise.

Three more years and he had died without ceremony, leaving her with nothing but debt, her baby girl, and tremendous buried talent. Then, she had done everything for little Meg, and by the time she had found herself as première danseuse at the Paris Opéra, she had been unsure if she had the strength left to perform. But it was only herself she was sacrificing, so for the first and last time, she did not stand by. Her career was short and intense and glorious. Unwilling to turn out the broken-bodied former star, who now used a walking-cane at younger than thirty, the directors had made her ballet mistress, and she had sworn to hold the position forever, if she did nothing else. It gave Meg the chance to spend her childhood running through golden halls, always chattering with a whole gaggle of energetic friends, doing whatever she liked.

Adeline had gone passive once again when Marguerite had returned. Still single, now in possession of her family's fortune, she had come backstage one night after seeing a show to offer forgiveness and financial help. But what her old friend proposed was unacceptable. Living with a wealthy single woman would damage Meg's reputation as much as Adeline's own. And perhaps there was another way, but in a perverted reversal of the way one could stand on the brink of danger and think to jump, Adeline's heart told her to run, to stay away, to let it pass for her own safety, and so she did. Looking in the mirror after sending a mournful Marguerite away, it seemed to Adeline that the right choice always involved denying oneself, and that was why her eyes hung so heavy in her face.

She had her child, and her honor, and nothing else.

Late that same night, she was wandering alone to clear her mind, going deeper, deeper into the opera house without quite registering how dark it was around her. And then, turning a corner, there was a man.

Bicolored eyes, she thought, and those eyes went wide, and the man or whatever it was, who was far bigger than she remembered, suddenly had her in a tight grasp. Her cane clattered to the floor, her back slammed against his chest, and a cold hand pressed over her mouth.

"Mademoiselle," he said, quiet but genial, as if he were passing her on the street rather than gripping her like a kidnapping victim, "do not scream. I will not harm you." She nodded without hesitance. It had been a long time since she had been so close to a man's body—for it was that, she realized—and she had not grown any fonder of the sensation. "Can I take that to mean you will not do something foolish?" She nodded again, more vigorously.

He released her, and she did not turn before asking, "Who are you?" Then, at his lack of answer, she went on, barely audible: "Monsieur, were you ever called the Devil's Child?"

"Ah. An old fan, are you?" he replied, voice not quite low enough, she thought, to be so thick with cynicism. With a pang, she recalled that if she was too young for her numbing heart, than he was criminally young for his.

"You might say that." Adeline raised her hands and turned, very slowly, to face him. Had he grown hair? No, it was too shiny, and the memory of the scarred head beneath that wig gave her a lurch. The ravaged, nearly featureless half of his face was now mercifully covered with a white mask, plain but impressively sleek. The other half was equally expressionless. It was not lined with false age like hers, but it was hard, thin, and she wondered with a start how exactly he had come to be here instead of remaining captive.

After watching her pick up her cane, he said, "You are not a petit rat, then. My apologies, madame."

"You regret manhandling me because I am not a dancer? Is that it?" she asked lightly, and immediately regretted it, shrinking back. Speaking out had never helped a thing, and certainly would not in the face of someone who could not be entirely sane.

But instead of outrage, he responded with a mild frown. "No, I—that is not what I meant. Forgive me."

So the Devil's Child had manners? "Who are you?" she asked again.

He shrugged as though she'd asked his favorite food. "Hard to say. But I will be here for some time, madame, and I would appreciate your discretion concerning my... physical existence."

"What does that mean?"

"There must be something you care about," he said, ignoring her question. "Do you have a husband in need of money?"

She shook her head. "I do not need anything," she lied, because it could not be wise to tell this strange man she had a daughter. "I will not tell anyone I saw you. Consider it a repayment."

"For what?" His cool expression turned briefly to a frown again.

"For watching," she said. "Back then."

This left him silent. After a moment, he nodded, then swept off into the blackness ahead; Adeline thought she could hear water. At least now, she mused, nothing was becoming rather easy to do.

Weeks later, Meg, who now wore a tutu and spent her days on her toes, came running with a tuft of shrieking girls behind her, all white-faced and clutching each other's hands.

"What is it?" asked Adeline, dropping to her knees to embrace Meg and ignoring the flash of pain in her back. "Ma petite, are you hurt? What happened?"

"A ghost," cried little Cécile Jammes, and Meg trembled at the very words, nodding into her mother's neck.

"A ghost, Maman," she repeated, "we saw him, I swear. Oh!—he was so ugly!" The other girls all murmured their agreement. In retrospect, Adeline realized, she ought to have said the ghost was not real, but all she said was that the ghost would not hurt them, he was not a vengeful ghost, and as long as they stayed out of dark places, they were sure to avoid him forever. She was not sure of any of this. Perhaps she ought to find the man and ask him to stay away from the dancers, but she was in no position to make demands.

The myth of the Phantom, the Opera Ghost, caught like fire and spread as quick, and his presence pushed the years along with urgency and intrigue. Meg turned thirteen, and her instructors predicted she would be as great as her mother had been, though hopefully, they whispered, bound for a longer career. The Paris Opéra became a flurry of gossip more than ever before, each production taking place under a heavier shadow. Meg grew tall, as Pierre had been. Whole sets went missing overnight. The only time Adeline ever screamed at her daughter was when she dyed her hair blonde, and even then, she forgave her quickly, for the colour was beautiful. At the same time, sightings of the Ghost, real or fake, grew so frequent that some even ceased to fear him; he was as much a part of the institution as the opera house itself.

By the time Meg was nineteen, a splendid ballerina who, despite her popularity, spent all her time with an orphaned dancer named Christine, Adeline no longer felt any guilt for keeping the secret of the Phantom's corporeality. He was everywhere and nowhere, and did not hurt her daughter, and there was really no point to trying to stop him. Besides, by doing her job quietly and firmly, and nothing else, she had earned general respect and the unquestioning devotion of the corps de ballet. If she suddenly turned around and began insisting that the Opera Ghost was actually a disfigured man skulking around, why, they might think her mad, and she would lose the grip on stable life that she had.

The next time she was alone in the dark and heard a distinct clearing of the throat, her heart raced for only a second before her mind took over.

"Monsieur le Fantôme," she said as she faced him, though it did not come out in the ironic tone she'd intended. He was far better turned-out than when they'd last met, in a thick cloak lined with silver embroidery, a velvet hat angled down over the mask, and a perfectly-tailored evening-suit; she recalled the rumors that he had stolen money from the directors, who were too rich for their own good anyhow. The Ghost took off that fine hat of his and held it in both gloved hands, bowing graciously and rather flamboyantly.

"Madame Giry—is that correct?" he said, interrupting her thoughts. "How nice to see you again after these years."

 _Is it?_ she thought, but she simply nodded uncertainly.

"As you may have noticed," he continued—his voice was fully a man's now, smooth-edged but low—"I have become rather influential here. Haven't I?" he prompted.

"Yes. Quite influential."

This satisfied him, and he began to pace languidly, setting his hat down on a nearby prop shelf. "I care very much about music, you see. In fact, it would be no exaggeration to say I live for it." He paused to fix his eyes on her sidelong. "We all need something to live for, don't we? I take it your raison d'être is your daughter." When Adeline blinked, not quick enough to hide her surprise, what she could see of his mouth curled up. "Why, madame, how could I _not_ know? I do wonder, though, why you all call her such a silly nickname as Meg. Is she 'Marguerite' after the _Faust_ heroine?"

"No, that is not why," Adeline managed.

"Pity. Anyhow, I digress. You are remarkably easy to talk to. Which is why—" he folded his hands behind his back, spinning on a heel to face her fully—"I have a proposition for you."

She barely stopped herself from stupidly echoing, _a proposition?_

"Now, why are you surprised?" said the Ghost. "You have proven yourself the exact sort of person I need. Lawful. Not the type to stick your nose where it doesn't belong. What I need, Adeline—may I call you Adeline?—thank you—is a messenger. I understand that you already have a job to do, and a loyalty to that job, but believe me, I have the best interests of the Paris Opéra at heart." At this, he must have seen the doubt on her face, because he made a gesture at her, a clearly-rehearsed unfolding of his fingers that invited her to speak.

"Well, monsieur," she said, managing to keep her tone even, "all you have done here thus far is frighten people and steal property. Your influence is not a positive one."

"A fair assessment. That is where you come in. I have frightened away incompetent musicians and staff, stolen inferior goods and replaced them with better ones, but I cannot give my input about minor details without a go-between, as it were. You would make me a much more productive and helpful ghost." He waited for her reply, beginning to tap his foot after moment. "Well?" he said. "What is inhibiting you? Your moral compass? I can promise that your hands will remain clean."

But she could not willingly sign on to do so much for anyone, not if she was not sure it was right. In fact, she did not want to be involved at all, not when she had taken so much care to keep her and Meg's lives free of any more strife, any more conflict than necessary.

Then the Ghost began to come closer, eyes narrowing, searching her face. "Your little Meg," he said slowly, "has always been quite fascinated by the rumors about the Phantom. What an inquisitive young woman. Brave. A woman of action, to be sure." He stopped about a foot away. "Perhaps she would be more willing—"

"No," said Adeline, straightening with a rush of fierceness. "Do not involve yourself with my daughter. Ever."

Unnervingly, this pleased the Ghost. "There we are. Some decision." Twisted lips curved into a mocking smile. "I swear that I will never harm your daughter, Adeline, if you agree to help me. Though really, you are in no position to negotiate. I suppose I am feeling nice today."

The fierceness pounded harder in her chest, and she was surprised to hear herself think _arrogant, ugly bastard, hiding in the shadows like the rat he is, coward—_

But what choice did she have? And secretly, shamefully, she wondered if she had not helped make him this way long ago, and whether she was not just paying the price. She was lucky it was so low.

Adeline tilted her chin up to look directly at the Ghost. "Fine."

"Oh, wonderful," he said, abruptly amiable again. He pressed his hands together in false delight, then spun to retrieve his hat and adjust it on his head. Again, there was an odd flamboyance to his manner, and some small part of her wondered if he was—different—in more ways than met the eye. But that was none of her concern. Silly of her to even think of it under such circumstances.

Hat tilted just so, the Ghost turned his attention to Adeline once more. "I will be in touch. Unfortunately, I will have to dictate messages to you—my handwriting is atrocious," he admitted with a theatrical spread of his hands, an innocent _what can I do?_ "Ah. And one more thing: Christine Daaé."

"What about her?" Adeline asked warily.

"If you would be so kind as to arrange for her to be alone tomorrow morning, I will find her myself, thank you very much."

"You would like to see the young lady _alone_."

"I will not be in the same room as her," the Ghost replied with dim annoyance, "but you may stand outside, if it assuages your concerns for propriety. I would like to offer her singing lessons."

That was the last thing she had expected to hear, but despite her suspicion, it made sense. Christine had a lovely voice, Meg always said, and would have been a great soprano if she hadn't been so discouraged by her father's death. Doubtless, Adeline could not stop the Ghost from approaching her, but this way, she could observe from afar.

"Very well. I will take her to a dressing room on the first floor. And I _will_ remain just outside."

"A bold employee already, hm?" The Ghost looked down at her as if endeared by this. "Well, despite it all, Adeline, I believe we shall get on famously. Good evening."

And so it was settled. The job was, in fact, quite easy, even easier than her stagnant marriage had been. The Ghost's actions soon extinguished any idea that Adeline was telling stories, and to her surprise, no one ever asked _why_ she was the one carrying his missives. The greatest challenge was sating Meg's curiosity while also keeping her as far from the whole business as possible, and this she managed perfectly well with vague warnings; mostly, Meg was too busy dancing or spending time with Christine, who came for dinner now and then, and who, when Adeline stopped outside her lessons, was improving with supernatural progress in her singing. She had no idea how the Ghost had persuaded her to learn from a disembodied voice, but Meg's closest friend appeared happier, if dreamier, so surely it was for the best.

Actually, Adeline became rather complacent. As the Ghost exacted his power over the staff and company, she began to feel, for the first time in her life, as though she had a share of power herself. The Ghost was prone to mood swings, but mostly quite diplomatic, even charming, and, on rare days, full of dry humor. Best of all, it seemed that all his designs relied on her cooperation. She was doing as much for this opera house as he was, _acting_ , for once, to the benefit of everyone around her.

It was a pretty illusion while it lasted.

One day, the Ghost was late to a meeting he had arranged, and was utterly lost in thought when he arrived.

"Why did you want to speak again?" he asked, tugging at a thread on his sleeve, pacing in that way that made her restless herself.

"You wanted to speak," she reminded him. "Where were you?"

"With Christi—ah, Miss Daaé. Why did _I_ want to speak?"

"Something about Lefevre."

"Oh, yes." The Ghost waved a hand. "We must write his letter of resignation for him. He came wandering into the cellars last night, and I am afraid he might be onto something."

"But who will replace him?"

"It does not matter who, as long as we make them believe in ghosts, hm? An easy thing to believe around here," he murmured. "Ghosts, angels, monsters, oh my."

"I certainly hope there are no monsters around here," she said, but humor had never been her forte, and the Ghost glanced up at her somewhat blankly. "Will that be all?" she added hastily, and he shook his head.

"About Christine," he said, clasping and then unclasping his hands. "Is she quite passionate about ballet, do you think?"

Adeline frowned. "Why, monsieur, you spend more time with her than I do."

"We do not discuss personal matters. Not usually," he amended, watching his shined shoes as he walked back and forth. "Well, we have not discussed this matter. Do you think she would be upset to give it up?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Why?" In truth, her answer was no. Christine was a fine dancer, to be sure, but she did not dance with the abandon of Meg, or the precision of La Sorelli, or the effortless grace of Cécile Jammes. She was good, but ultimately not special, which did not seem to be the case with her voice.

"I am wondering if I should... encourage her to begin her singing career." Finally, he stopped his pacing. "Do you think she would like that?"

Later, Adeline would curse herself for not seeing the feelings in him which would, in retrospect, be the crux of the tragedies that took place. In the moment, she was simply puzzled by the awkward humanity she was faced with as the Ghost watched her earnestly. It did not suit him at all.

"I think," she said delicately, "that Miss Daaé is very dedicated to singing, and that she has a unique voice."

"That is an understatement. Yes," he said to himself, "it may be time to show her." He thought for a moment longer, then snapped back awake and approached Adeline. "Thank you," he said, not offering one of his duplicitous smiles, but taking one of her hands. In this light, she could only see his unmasked brown eye, and looked away quickly from its self-conscious depth. "For your advice, and your help."

He had never said that before. "It is nothing," she said. He looked as if he might say something else. Instead, he bent as if to kiss her hand, though his lips did not actually touch her skin. She almost wished that they had, because when they did not, a sudden, matter-of-fact clarity told her that she had meant more to him than he ever had to her, and she did not feel guilty, only vaguely sad and distinctly uncomfortable.

When he left in a rush, she was relieved, unaware that it would be the last time she ever saw him in the flesh. Up close, at least. Where she could believe, had no choice to believe, that he was a man.

After that, it all happened quite fast. The next week during rehearsal, the scenery fell, the diva absconded, and somehow Adeline knew it was her place to say that Christine would sing instead. Oh—she had never admitted to the young woman that she knew her tutor, but it was too late now. There was a brief moment of nostalgic warmth when she spotted the new star with Meg backstage, the two of them holding hands and whispering, and she let them sneak off to Christine's dressing room for just enough time before knocking and summoning her daughter and delivering a note from the rich new patron, of whom she thought nothing, at first.

Then Christine disappeared, and reappeared shaken, and Meg demanded to know if her mother had been aware that a ghost, _the_ Ghost, had been teaching her best friend all this time. It had been a secret for Meg's safety, she told her, and Meg had demanded what about _Christine's_ safety, what about Christine, why wouldn't anybody but her do anything for Christine, and from now on she needed to know everything about everything. Adeline agreed helplessly, faced directly for the first time with the full force of her daughter's spirit; she found herself equal parts proud of and frightened for her. Just by naming her Marguerite, had she really made her as wonderfully and terrifyingly the same as the other?

Then notes began to come that she hadn't expected. Walking into the directors' office brandishing a message, she stopped cold to see all their hands filled with sheets of paper. His handwriting really was awful—red ink was smudged here and there across the page, and he had scrawled his threats in the scattered manuscript of a drugged child. She needed to speak to him, because he had listened to her before, hadn't he? She struggled to remember when. She would try, anyhow. But he did not respond to her calls in the cellars, not even to tell her to stop meddling. He was gone, and there was nothing she could do.

Accidents. Not just Buquet—stagehands nobody bothered to mourn, an audience member who had heard the rumors and strayed too far into the bowels of the opera house. She discovered one of the bodies herself, and thought foolishly of the last glimpse she'd had of that wide, worried brown eye.

Adeline tried to remember what it had felt like to feel powerful, to rap her cane on the floor and draw the attention of the room, to keep the Opera Ghost waiting. But she had never earned that power for herself, she realized in a bout of dizzying self-loathing, only stood by and let it fall into her hands. Of course it had been taken just as easily. Ridiculously, she found herself scolding Carlotta when the former prima donna began to whine during _Don Juan_ rehearsals. As if by shutting down criticism of his composition, she would win the Ghost's favor back yet, undo the nervous exhaustion on Christine's face and the resulting constant concern on Meg's.

She believed no one slept for several of those last days. Adeline's vision swam with fatigue when she pointed Raoul de Chagny, who loved Christine less than perhaps others, but enough, across the lake to find the Ghost—the Devil's Child—the broken thing who had fallen to his knees onstage, unmasked before thousands. She had been the only one in the audience who hadn't cried out or gasped or cursed. To not do something had been meaningless, as ever. In the cold fog beneath the opera house, watching and shivering as the Vicomte de Chagny plunged into the water, she wondered if, if she'd simply thrust herself into one moment of decisiveness and killed the monster-child at the fair long ago, her hands would be more or less bloody than they were now.

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer again, almost no trimming or editing or anything was done with this lol i just had a rough day and wanted to write and then i said PUBLISH
> 
> and did i imply one or more characters might be queer, just for fun, to appease my little bisexual rat brain? possibly. don't take it too seriously i'm just vibing


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